


In the Retelling

by pyrrhical (anoyo)



Series: Repeat 'Verse [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Can be read alone, Get Together, M/M, Repeat 'Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/pseuds/pyrrhical
Summary: If someone had asked him, Stiles would have said that he and Derek getting together would be like the clash of two superpowers: explosive, and with a lot of collateral damage.(Note: Can very easily be read alone.)





	In the Retelling

**Author's Note:**

> This is a holiday fic for Sophi Kingsley, who does not have an account, but said she would see the fic once it existed, so I hope that's still true! She asked for a get-together, and while this might not be a proper one, it's still a canon one. :)

If someone had asked him, Stiles would have said that he and Derek getting together would be like the clash of two superpowers: explosive, and with a lot of collateral damage. He would _not_ have said it would be one chaste kiss followed by Derek refusing to date him until he turned eighteen.

Maybe in the years to come, the story got shifted around a bit in the telling, but it started out like this.

A ten-minute trip from the loft to the grocery turned into a thirty-minute ordeal when Stiles blew a tire, and he got out of the Jeep in time for the sky to open up and dump on him, with a little lightning for good measure. Cranking up the Jeep turned into an obnoxious sort of mud wrestling, and by the time the spare was bolted on, Stiles had jumped straight over “wet” and into “gills may now become necessary.”

He did not finish his trip to the grocery.

No one minded the lack of caffeinated beverages, it turned out, as everyone had seen the rain start and gone home. Without texting him.

“What do you mean everyone left?” Stiles asked, stripping his plaid shirt back and off his arms, splattering the entryway with water. He only barely kept himself from wringing it out on the floor.

Derek just looked at him, then repeated, “The lightning started, they left. A while ago.”

“What’s ‘a while’?” Stiles groaned. “I was only gone half an hour! What if I’d come back here with the soda, huh?”

“Then I would have had it for next time,” Derek answered, walking away from the door.

Stiles slipped the rest of the way in, then dragged the door shut behind him. He considered for half a second before toeing off his shoes. He pulled off his socks, laying them out to dry next to his shoes, which he flipped upside down. “It’s still rude!” he called, balance wavering a bit from side to side as he did his arranging. His plaid made a squishing noise when he dropped it.

Derek reappeared with a towel -- bright orange, Stiles could only assume Erica -- and held it out. When Stiles took it, Derek swiped Stiles’ plaid off the floor, then waved Stiles in the direction of the bathroom.

“What?” Stiles asked, using the towel to dry his hair and his face.

“There are some shorts and a t-shirt in the bathroom,” Derek said. “Change.”

“Bossy,” Stiles said, but headed for the bathroom. When he was finished drying off and changing, he dumped his soaked shirt and jeans on top of the rest of his wet clothes, which Derek had placed in a basket outside the bathroom door. “Where do you want these?” he asked, calling out into the loft.

“Just leave them,” Derek answered, his voice coming from the mezzanine. “I’ll wash them. You can return what you’re wearing later.”

Stiles shrugged. “Fine by me.” He walked toward the windows, showing nothing but rain running diagonal across the panes. “Do you care if I hang out until this calms down?”

“No,” Derek answered, his voice behind Stiles now.

Stiles hadn’t expected Derek to kick him out, so he made his way to the sidewalk couch that had turned up a few weeks ago and sat down, throwing his arms up onto the back and stretching. “Cool,” Stiles agreed. He glanced around the loft, finally finding Derek in the kitchen, such as it was, running water from the tap into a glass.

The pack had been getting along better, three months past the ridiculousness that had been the Alpha Pack, and getting everyone together was less painful than it had been.

That said, it was still a bit of a miracle to get through anything substantial without at least some minor disagreement. “Did everyone stay on their best behavior after I left?”

He could see Derek shrug. “Good enough.”

Stiles chuckled, then waved at Derek. “Dude, sit down. Lurking in your own apartment is just weird.”

He couldn’t see it, but Stiles knew Derek had rolled his eyes. Their relationship had become both less and more confusing, over the last few months. The hostility was almost still there, only it had morphed into a more comfortable cheerful antagonism. That and the broader sense of loyalty had Stiles infinitely more comfortable in Derek’s company.

The quiet _something_ that arose when it was just the two of them was still comfortable, but had the feeling of static electricity when Stiles let himself think about it. Usually, that meant he didn’t. Sometimes, he couldn’t help it.

Derek crossed the loft to sit down next to Stiles, arranging himself in some strange combination of formal and relaxed, leaning against the far arm, but sitting as though in a chair, feet flat on the floor.

“And people call me awkward,” Stiles said, grinning. “I mean, they’re right, I’m super awkward, we know this, but Derek, do you ever just relax? I promise I’m not going to shoot you here.”

“Stiles,” Derek started, then paused.

“Shut up, I know,” Stiles finished, turning so that he was leaning against the armrest next to him and facing Derek.

Derek rolled his eyes. “I was going to say that I am relaxed,” he said, facing Stiles.

“Could have fooled me,” Stiles said, crossing his arms and prodding Derek in the thigh with his toes. “You look like I told you to sit down so I could tell you where the bomb I planted is located.”

“I’m comfortable.” Derek shrugged. He turned his head far enough to glance back at the wall-sized windows. “I don’t think that’s going to let up.”

Stiles scoffed. “It has to eventually.” He paused. “Right? I mean, we didn’t accidentally summon eternal pouring rain, did we? God, that would be just perfect.”

“No,” Derek said. “It’s just rain.”

“Oh, good,” Stiles said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He had only mostly been joking. “Should I just head out, then?”

“No,” Derek repeated. “You can wait.”

“What if it keeps raining for hours?” Stiles asked.

“You’ve slept on the couch before.”

Stiles laughed. “I wouldn’t have called it sleeping. More like, unconscious from blood loss.”

“Whatever,” Derek agreed.

“Thanks, then,” Stiles said, nudging Derek again with his toes.

Derek caught his foot, then scowled when Stiles poked him with the other.

“You know,” Stiles said, trying and failing to pull his feet back, “a year ago, I don’t think I would’ve imagined sitting on your couch for any reason, and definitely not because it’s raining and you won’t make me drown myself to get home.”

“That sentence was painful,” Derek said.

“Whatever,” Stiles said, flapping a hand. “I’m just saying, it’s weird how quickly shit can change, you know?”

Derek looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

“And at risk of getting myself kicked out, it sort of feels like we skipped the friend step here,” Stiles continued, gesturing at Derek. “I mean, we’re friends, sure, but that’s not all of it. Family, maybe. Or something like it.”

“Pack,” Derek said, shrugging.

“Yeah, all of us together, definitely.” Stiles nodded. “But you and me?”

“Pack, Stiles,” Derek repeated, his voice some mix between exasperation and amusement.

“It doesn’t really feel the same, though,” Stiles said. “Does it? I mean -- something.”

Derek gave him another look, definitely amusement, before he said, “It doesn’t have to.”

“Isn’t it supposed to?” Stiles asked. “Just, what does it feel like to you?”

“Pack,” Derek said, easily, before he shifted into Stiles’ space. “And maybe--” He kissed Stiles lightly. “--but not until you’re eighteen.”

“I-- Wait, what?”

If, in the retelling, the kiss was a little more mutual, or there was a little less flailing, and a little more laughter, no one would ever have to know.


End file.
